


Shattered Order

by Allusion_Conclusion



Category: Star vs. The Forces Of Evil
Genre: Bad Day on the Job, Fantasy, Gen, Horror and Trauma, Knights - Freeform, Laundry Related Terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 19:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17028942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allusion_Conclusion/pseuds/Allusion_Conclusion
Summary: Why does the once illustrious Order of the Wash have but one member? What disasters laid those great knights low? We find out during the pivotal quest that only happens when a queen is laid to rest and a new head holds the crown.Inspired by, and dedicated to the fan-fic: Squire of the Wash. This was my late entry to the Svtfoe Sub-Reddit's November 24-hour writing contest, Theme: Prequel (any story that takes place before 'Star Comes to Earth').





	Shattered Order

**Author's Note:**

  * For [all_possible_worlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_possible_worlds/gifts), [Grade_A_Sexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grade_A_Sexual/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Squire of the Wash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13398504) by [all_possible_worlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_possible_worlds/pseuds/all_possible_worlds), [Grade_A_Sexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grade_A_Sexual/pseuds/Grade_A_Sexual). 



Shattered Order       By: Allusion-Conclusion  
  
  
Tragedy had struck. The peasantry, pockmarked and ragged, clogged the streets. They stumbled about, lost within their grief. A great cry reverberated whenever a heraldic flag was brought to half-mast, a great wailing rising from every tenement house and manse with each toll of the bell. The fourth regiment, Solaria's Shatterers, had been wiped out to the last man. They had not fallen alone.  
  
  
Squire Aquantius wept, she smelt burnt flesh and wept. Tears ran down her now troubled cheeks. She no longer needed to find Ser Taberc of Soapington a length of twine to use as a tourniqute, for now both his arm's stump was cauterized and the man himself, quite dead. Aquantius rolled for cover as the limestone behind her melted and split. Her tears evaporated from this most recent blast of heat, leaving salty trails in their passing. Her heart could not still, the thrice blessed wyrewood stirring crook clattering against doorways as she ran, it reverberated with a clang everytime it's weilder swung out to deflect her heart shapped foe. Far off wailings and curses from the few remaining, broken washmen echoed around the damaged halls of Aquantius's domain. Too, over the past forty-eight hours of mourning, the rare shout of reverentful triumph such as when the platinum shit-kickers were finally polished with an unscrolling agent.  
  
  
Seven and one-quarter minutes were what the squire had been asked to provide. Barely two had passed before her knight had lost an arm in a spurt of blood, another thirty seconds before those baleful lances had melted away her senior's chainmail, underlying organs, and charred the bleeding apendage. It was time Aquantius brought this chase to an end. She knew that in moments she would no longer be prey, but bait for the trap!  
  
  
Seven and one-quarter minutes. Pride and care had been thrown to the wind. Perhaps it was too much faith in their long chivalric history that had brought them low? The wizened Master of Soaps thought they'd known what to expect from Solaria. Both the high and low Keepers of Folding were sure that the wash would have at least one funeral of its own considering the vast array of martial spells Solaria had wielded in life. Never had the lords of the Wash considered that Solaria had always seen herself more as a general than as a warrior. Solaria's violent death had left her armor dented, torn, and covered in viscera. Her poltergown was powerful resplendent! Once freed of its runic storage trunk, the shattered garb had worked the fallen queen's greatest spell upon the heaps of laundry piled high across the wash. A legion of peasants' befouled tunics and coarse dresses had sprung to life under the workings of poltergown magics. A parody of the transformation that befell Mina Loveberry and the rest of the Solarians! The clothes swelled, each article became like a suit of living armor, and they were all under control of Solaria's now phantasmal warplate. The linen warriors fell upon the shocked knights like a horror-play.  
  
  
Seven and one-quarter minutes. Aquantius could not process how she had held out so long, but she had given her remaining fellow squires enough time to fill and fire up the Midnight Bitch, bucket sixty-seven. It was a long dormant monstrosity: covered in spikes and forged from the black, unnameable metal of the underworld, and equiped with the harshest of cleaning cycles. It was a mechanism of last resort. Only the quantities of bodily fluids spilling across these lower halls could cause the Order to break its taboos and dare use it upon a Butterfly's funeral garb.  
  
  
She reached for the end of this deadly marathon, wrenching at a brass latch to throw open the oaken portal. As she cleared the doorway the squire shouted a hoarse warning, "I have brought the stain!" She immediately realized that she was looking down onto yet another, _all too familiar_ , hell. The girl of two days ago would have frozen up at seeing such carnage. The woman of moment though could taste ozone in the air and immediately dropped to her belly. Forked bolts of lightning passed within a knife's width of her and darted downwards, comparatively adding little to the chaos below. A bolt was attracted to the copper buttons of a crusteacean red vest and struck them, lighting the garment ablaze. The vest ceased it's battle with Turgen and his golden hangers to writhe about like some panicked, violent dancer. Those undulating flames showed that the trap was a bust. Sure, black bucket sixty-nine was whirling madly, the ochre colored bubbles displaying the twin facts that both the temperature was correct and that three drops of hell hound blood had been added. Squire Whosit was to have ripped out the columns supporting the wooden gantry Aquantius now strode across. The plan's failure lay in that Whosit lay dead or dying on the cold floor, supports untouched, seemingly strangled to death by an A-cup Armian-cotton brazier. _The little ones were damn dangerous too._  
  
  
Knowing that the dead queen's funeral procession was imminent, and that untold devastation would occour should the furious poltergown escape the Wash: the woman found her body moving of its own accord. The narrow gantry limited both her and the heartshaped breastplate's movements. Dancing between gouts of fire and immaterial blades the squire traded burns and various wounds for precious distance. Nearly spent, she at last used the enchanted crook to hook an exposed wyrm-leather shoulder strap. With a sharp tug and a leap backward the squire left the raised gantry and embraced gravity. She watched in horror as Solaria's chestpiece began to unbuckle its own strap, but faster still the squire's weight pulled it over the short railing and downwards to the frothing black vessel.  
  
  
Aquantius gasped for breath as she was battered by the thick metalic paddles of the tub, her vision obscured by the red bubbles. She could hear the breastplate, the sounds of two foreign metals slamming against each other, the great paddles adding more dents to the already battleworn object with every oscellation. She saw it rise menacingly like a shark from the depths, it's back to her as it hunte... no, Aquantius saw the breastplate as hysterically trying to leave the tub. It wasn't hunting, it was desperately tying not to drown. It could not leave this basin!  
  
  
She lashed out with the wyrewood crook again, pulling at the many leather straps grasping at the edge of the black basin like the tentacles of a kraken. With her left arm Aquantius held the side of the tub, fighting the current and her own threat of drowning. With her right, she and the crook forced the breastplate to the bottom of the Midnight Bitch. The magical wash vessel leached at the magics keeping the poltergown together, eroded the residual personality that sought to slay what it assumed were threats to the kingdom, the furious cycle even broke away the mortal gore that was caked on during Solaria's own violent death.  
  
  
With the ending of the garments' general the previously violent piles of clothes became listless, easy to end. As Aquantius tumbled free, she lay gasping for air yet freshly cleaned. She would learn in the days to come that the Midnight Bitch had even scrubbed away her own shadow. The deed was done, and the remaining Washmen folded up their phyric victory.  
  
  
With every tolling of the bell the people mourned for Solaria, for their defender, and the fate of Mewni. Aquantius, with tears in her eyes mourned for the Order of the Wash.  


**Author's Note:**

> -AC
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired by, and dedicated to the fan-fic: Squire of the Wash. Go forth and seek out it's authors Grade_A_Sexual and All_Possible_Worlds. I suppose that makes this a fan-fic of a fan-fic.
> 
>  
> 
> 12-16-2018 Transplanted to AO3. Edited for spelling and grammar mistakes, made things flow a little better.
> 
>  
> 
> This was my late entry to the Svtfoe Sub-Reddit's November 24-hour writing contest, Theme: Prequel (any story that takes place before 'Star Comes to Earth'). Said contest is taking place the first-ish Saturday of every month all S4 hiatus long. There's plenty of great contributors and stories there (go for the contest submissions, stay for the memes & theories).  
>  
> 
> Do I need a disclaimer? Svtfoe is owned by: Miss Nefcey, Disney, and 'The Mouse'.


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